The full moon hovered, an unnecessary accomplice. He had noticed their initial meeting, something resembling melancholy in her eyes, less an emotion than a settled kind of knowledge, a private acquaintance with disappointment. She spoke of her fear as though it was something fragile, she was allowing him to hold, an invitation, perhaps. He listened, drawn in by the way she seemed to observe him. She was almost composed, convincing enough that, had he not known her better, he might have believed it, and the space between them took on a quiet tension. Something between them was already reacting, responding faster than either of them could pretend to control.

She offered the poison on the tip of a spoon. He recognized its shape, the shallow bowl, the slight bend of its handle, without remembering where the knowledge came from, or what earlier use he was mistaking it for. He accepted it, believing this was how closeness is confirmed.

The first taste was disarmingly sweet, unmistakably so, and her eyes did not release him until it was done. She held his gaze as one does when the eyes do what the hands can not, watching closely as his pupils widened, his expression softened, his caution quietly giving way. Somewhere within that sweetness, the bitterness was already taking shape. By the time the bitterness surfaced, desire had already decided for him. It struck him, with the dry amusement reserved for such realizations, that while she had spoken of terror as an idea, he had been left to experience it as a practical exercise. He understood this perfectly and felt a quiet satisfaction at having learned absolutely nothing new.